Worn In

My father takes conference calls in his bedroom—the door shut, but his voice loud enough that I can still hear every word. I can’t see him, but I know exactly what he looks like. His glasses off, on the table next to him, and his fingers rubbing his temples in a way that seems almost punishing.

I’m out in the sitting area, with my back against the couch and my face cheek down on a coffee table. I trace the grains in the wood with my fingers a think very hard about nothing at all. There’s a blanket over top of me—teal and soft and warm. The radiator buzzes the water in my glass shake just a tiny bit when I tap my fingers gently.

There is a wary comfort to our routine. A worn-in feeling.

There’s a fridge full of leftovers I cooked on the weekend that we will heat up later. A DVR full of shows waiting to be seen.

My brain isn’t thinking in metaphors and turns of phrase right now. It’s thinking in to-do lists and email salutations. It’s hard to write when my heart isn’t in it, and I don’t know if it is right now.

Not everything makes for good prose and not everything makes for a good story.

I’m looking towards the less routine days. The days full of work and full of new adventures. The days I can write beautifully about.

Today isn’t that day. This story isn’t that story. But it’ll come, and it’ll come soon.